


He gave me the gift of myself

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Discusses sexuality, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: I am constantly aware of the energy in the room; static electricity builds with each staring match, each brush of skin or invasion of space. It laces adrenaline-filled moments after a case, the unspoken question hanging between us - do you want me as much as I want you?~John & Sherlock knew there was something between them from the beginning, and decide to do something about it~
Relationships: Harry Watson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 99
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, HolmesCon Writers Collection, Sherlock Fandom VS 2020





	He gave me the gift of myself

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a whole year since I posted my first fic to Ao3! Like the first, this one is the product of stubborn procrastination.

White light illuminates the room as the sixth text comes through; the phone sending deep vibrations through the dresser. Wearily, I open my eyes, sighing as I fumble to find the infernal device. This better be good.

_**Bored. SH** _

_**How do people sleep so much? It’s utterly tedious. SH** _

_**Where did you put the eyeballs? SH** _

_**Call me SH** _

_**Don’t look in the microwave when you get home. SH** _

_**Or the sink SH** _

I smile despite myself.

_**On second thoughts just stay away from the kitchen SH** _

I had thought, after Afghanistan, that my life had reached its peak. I was split in half; everything I had become, the person I had chosen to be, was left to die in the middle of a desert. I was convinced that John Watson, army surgeon, was dead and gone, and my body was a shell of who I used to be. I was no longer the naive boy that had enlisted all those years ago, nor the danger seeking, decision making surgeon, and I wasn’t sure how I could survive in this world carrying the knowledge of how much humans are capable of, or the weight of what I had lost. My friends were dead. Those who I had shared the most important years of my life with were dead, most of them on my operating table. It seemed impossible to walk through life pretending that I hadn’t seen the things I had- that I was like any of these people back in England. I would never be like them, not anymore. A cane in my hand and a gun in my pocket, I struggled to see how I could ever feel whole. How could I, when part of myself had been shot out and left half a planet away.

Sherlock Holmes was the first person who really saw me; saw through the limp and the facade of coping, and reminded me that I was always whole. I hadn’t been broken by my invalidation, I had simply changed. The adrenaline junky, problem solving, justice-seeking John Watson was still within me, just buried by layers of grief. Sherlock gave me the greatest gift of all; myself.

Without bothering to check the time, I dial the number. He answers almost immediately as if he’s been holding the phone, waiting for my call.

“What did you do to the microwave?” I demand the minute the call connects. My smile bleeds though, my voice sounding less threatening than intended.

“I thought you’d be asleep.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

“I was.” I mimic his tone, trying not to wake Harry in the next room.

This is the longest either of us have been apart. A week away in Brighton, visiting Harry, and it’s almost too much to bear. His absence is loud; each time Harry speaks I expect to hear his baritone voice beside me, calling her out on her bullshit and reading the truth from her clothes. Or perhaps, confirming that this time is different. It certainly feels like it. It jars me each time the voice doesn’t come.

“Tedious.” He sighs.

“Don’t you have a case on? That one with the cats?”

“I solved it this morning. Boring, 3/10 if best. I think Lestrade’s getting stupider.” I stifle a laugh, aware of how loud I sound in the darkness.

“Maybe he was just trying to give you something to do. Mrs Hudson told me you’ve been driving her up the wall.” I try not to think about what that means, the fact that every time I spend any significant time away from the flat Sherlock becomes antsier.

It isn’t that I haven’t noticed what’s happening between us- on the contrary, I am constantly aware of the energy in the room; static electricity builds with each staring match, each brush of skin or invasion of space. It laces adrenaline-filled moments after a case, the unspoken question hanging between us- _Do you want me as much as I want you?_ The self-control required not to take his mouth with mine, to push him against the wall and show him who’s really in control, is almost too much to bear. But I maintain my distance because this is more important than that. For the first time, I don’t want a quick fix- a relationship for the sake of it, someone to keep the bed warm and the nights less lonely. I’ve no interest in rushing headfirst, without thought or fears of the consequence. I want all of him, the breathless nights and still mornings, his quick-fire deductions and soft undertone. I want to be woken at three in the morning by violins and experiments, I want to be frustrated by bullet holes in the wall and severed heads in the fridge. He gave me back myself and I want to embrace all the parts of him.

“Perhaps there’ll be a good case tomorrow? Or you could ask Molly for some more path samples. Just for the love of God don’t put them in the microwave again.”

“Hmm.” He grunts, and I can tell he’s not listening.

“You could come home.” He says this very matter of factly, as if he couldn’t care less, but I hear the slight drop in his voice that says otherwise. I’m scared that I imagined it, that my desperation for some sought of a sign is making me hear things.

Logically, I know that the thing that’s building between us is mutual, I can practically feel his eyes raking over me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. My imagination is not vivid enough to create the tension that arises whenever I compliment him on crime scenes, or when he leans slightly to close. Still, I constantly doubt myself, part of me wondering if this is all some drawn-out experiment in human behaviour. It makes me hesitant, this doubt, to finally bridge the gap and give him the last part of myself that he doesn’t yet own. I am desperate to get this right, to prove that I’m here for the long haul. Desperate enough to wait when all I want to do is jump.

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“But I want you now.” It’s said so quickly I wonder if he has misspoken; some late-night Freudian slip. My smile doesn’t stop at my lips, it covers my face and I am so grateful that Sherlock can’t see me right now.

“The trains aren’t running at this hour, I’ll be back at midday. You’ll live until then.” He makes a noise like he’s unconvinced, but doesn’t push it. I am tempted, so tempted, to just pack my back and slip into the night- to call a cab and be back in London by morning. If I was alone, I probably would, but it wouldn’t be fair on Harry.

There’s a comfortable silence settling around us, and I wonder how long we could go without speaking, just listening to the sounds of each others breathing. At home, we regularly do; comfortable enough in each-others company just to simply exist in a shared space.

I want to reassure him that he’s not alone in wanting me home. I swirl the words around in my mouth, trying to pluck up the courage to take a step forward, to lead with honesty and perhaps fully acknowledge us, as an entity.

“I miss you.” It comes out as a whisper, and I wish I’d been more confident; sounded more deliberate. At first there’s no reply and my stomach does a backflip, regretting the obviousness of my words.

“I miss you too.”

*

I must have fallen asleep at some point because before I know it I’m opening my eyes to the bright light of morning, my phone discarded in the sheets next to me. The call is still running. 5hrs - Shit. That’s going to cost me a fortune. I rub the sleep from my eyes and say his name into the microphone, wondering if he’s been listening this whole time. No-one replies, but I can make out the sounds of shallow breaths. He must be asleep.

I hang up, and by the time I’m up and dressed Harry is already in the kitchen making breakfast.

“Good morning! What time’s your train again?” She stuffs a piece of dry toast in her mouth- a habit I could never understand- and dumps another unceremoniously on the plate in front of me.

“Ten.” I reach for the jam, making a point of spreading it on the bread. Harry wrinkles her nose at me. The only reason she owns jam is because I brought it with me.

“Do you need a lift to the station?”

“Nah, it's alright, I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

“I keep forgetting that you don’t have that limp anymore.”

“Well, you can thank Sherlock for that.”

“I intend to. When do I finally get to meet the boyfriend?” Her eyes twinkle, waiting for me to take the bait.

“It’s not- “ I start, but stop myself. What’s the point of denying it? I’ve always had a strange relationship with my sexuality, especially seeing everything Harry went through growing up. It took me a long time to get comfortable with the idea that I wasn’t straight, especially knowing that I wanted to be in the army- I convinced myself that the two things weren’t compatible. When I enlisted, I had initially tried to hide behind my bisexuality- to bury myself behind their assumptions of heteronormativity. I’m glad that in the end, the truth came out, (albeit under the influence of alcohol) and I was accepted for who I was, rather than the lie that I was trying to perpetuate.

I have finally got to a place where I don’t care what people around me think- most of the time. I know who I am and I know that part of me will never change, regardless of what people think. Sometimes, however,I still find myself slipping into old habits and I kick myself for it every time. Correcting Sebastian Wilkes had been a knee jerk reaction; I put up walls because I became scared he could see what was happening between us before I had gotten my head around where Sherlock and I were headed.

“Okay, yeah I guess it is like that. Nothing’s happened yet but-“

“You want it to?” Harry interrupts, a wicked smile hanging from her lips.

“God yes.”

“I hope it does. He’s good for you.” Harry’s face softens.

“You’ve not even met him yet.” It’s not a protest, I know she’s right. Sherlock says that I am ‘a conductor of light’; helping him make deductions and solve cases without meaning to. That may be true, but he is my conductor of life. Somehow, everything makes more sense now. I am finally at a point in my life where I comfortable with what lies in front of me- I’m not running towards or away from anything; content to simply be.

“I don’t need to.”

We spend the rest of the morning just chatting, catching up on lost time, and when I finally leave something feels like it’s slotted into place.

The train home is quiet, so I manage to get a table seat. I pull out my laptop, editing the latest case write up, ready to post on the blog. The feeling of completeness from Harry’s is still there. Acknowledging that I want this, I want him, seems to have given me a self-assuredness that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps it’s time to do something- to bridge that gap and ask for more.

I spend the rest of the journey staring blankly at the screen, trying to think of how I’d broach the subject. Do we talk first, or do I just go for it? It would be easy, in those hazy adrenaline-fuelled moments, to tangle my fingers in those black curls, and kiss him until neither of us can breathe. I’m sure that would get the message across.

Nervousness eats at my stomach all the way in the cab from London Bridge and as I walk up Baker Street, still unsure as to how to move forward. The doubt starts creeping up at me again, but I push it away. At this rate, Sherlock will read this on me before I even have a chance to open my mouth.

When I walk into the flat, he’s sat in his chair watching the doorway, fingers under his chin as if he’s been thinking hard about something. His eyes meet mine the moment I cross the doorway- he’s been waiting for me. I can’t decide if it’s unusual or not. I drop my bag in the corner and I’m about to open my mouth when he speaks.

“Kiss me.” He speaks in a flat tone as if it’s the most natural thing to greet your flatmate with. My brain hitches, stumbling over the sentence.

“Excuse me?” The words are involuntary and the moment they are out of my mouth I wish I’d said something better. What if he changes his mind? What if he takes them as a sign I’m not interested, backing off before I have the chance to act on them?

“Kiss me.” He says again, this time cocking his head with a smug smile perched on his lips. I regain control, this time able to consider the words instead of blurting them out.

“A hello might have been nice.” I can’t help but mirror him, the corner of my mouth pulling up of its own accord. The air is crackling again, months of pent up energy building between us.

“Kiss. Me.”

“And why would I do that?” I prolong the moment, letting the tension build and dropping my voice in a way I hope sounds seductive rather than desperate.

“Because you want to.” It comes out as a purr, and I swear my knees almost buckle. I walk slowly towards his chair, praying that they won’t give out before I get there.

“What makes you think so?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Every. Single. Thing”

I’ve started staring unashamedly at those perfect lips, craving the moment when they are under mine.

“Is that so?” I sink into his lap. Months. For months I have dreamt of this, and it’s every bit as perfect as I imagined. I draw out the moment, knowing that every second I wait makes him crazy. Even so, I’m not sure I can last much longer.

“Say please” I murmur into his ear, my hand running over his neck and through the nape of his hair. He turns, only slightly, to catch my gaze. His eyes seem to melt in front of me, and it takes all my self-restraint not to take everything all at once. To consume him, and let him devour me in return.

“Kiss me.” He repeats, and I lean in and hover mere inches from his lips. I can feel his breath tickle my skin.

“Please.” He whispers. I close the gap, and his lips are warm against mine. Something inside me feels like it’s exploded, and the warmth spreads throughout my blood. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. We melt together, taking each other apart piece by piece, until I can’t remember where I end and he begins.


End file.
